The attraction in question is a gargantuan maze, which claims to lose all who dare enter its meter-wide lanes, its gray three-meter-high walls, offering mirror after mirror of varying size, depth, deceptive illusion. There is no short supply of the brave: on the average there are eleven-hundred-twenty three entrants per day. Forty-one people have found their way out in the ninety-one days the maze has been open; 102,152 are still lost, many of whom, one must suppose, are now dead. The strawberry freshener expelled in the lanes can’t disguise the smell of flesh decomposing. Did I love a dream? No matter! Others will drag me to happiness by their tresses knotted in the horns on my brow. Aren’t you glad you use petroleum? Don’t wait to be told you explode. You’re not fully here until you’re over there. Never let them see you eat. You might be taken for a zoo. Raise your hand if you’re sure you’re not. As Michael Rothberg helpfully points out in Traumatic Realism, the phrase “poetry after Auschwitz” is perhaps rendered with greater clarity (but less urgency) if translated into “poetry after reification.” Now I turn in fifty directions a second. It's too hot out; it's too cold. My legs hurt; my legs pine. I open the windows; I lower the drapes. I sweep the dust; I gather pollen thicker than my own skin. I can get nothing clean, nothing right. I keep wiping the floor, and my feet keep leaving their obvious marks. There is one hand under my back while I sleep, pushing me up. I'm afraid if I close my eyes too long, I'll awake in the sky. The objective view is only a relative after all. “LE’ GO / LE’ ME GO / LE’ GO / LE’ GO / COME ON COME ON” and “I’M BUILDING / BUILDING / A [letter(s) missing due to torn stencil] / OF WATER.” These are interrupted by “OH / YEH / EITHER” and Other pages have been produced by sending leaves through the press behind the stencil [Illustration 2 p20], wetting stencils, and handling pages before they have dried. Very little written language is on any given page, with enigmatic phrases such as “This is Yours.” scrawled on a page dirtied with fingerprints [Illustration 3 p21], or “STABLY ILLEGEBLE” written upside down and backwards across the top of a page of line drawings and scribbles containing two other partial word clusters of “HALLO” and “FAIN” [Illustration 4 p22], or psuedo-letter forms imbedded in a map-like set of line drawings [Illustration 5 p23]. Define remediation. Not sure if you guys knew this, but one of our favorite things to do in the office is snort coke off of stripper’s asses. It's a little after-lunch tradition that does wonders for office morale. So, understandably, we were excited when we heard that the Flatbush Zombies just released a video for “S.C.O.S.A.”, or, “Snort Coke Off a Stripper's Ass.” The project is spearheaded by a loose collective of architects calling themselves ‘WEAK!’ after ‘weak architecture’, their term for the vibrant, organic and often transient structures that sprout up on top of the strong, industrial base city of Taipei. On a wall in a city in Italy is scrawled a graffito: ‘Leggete Nanni Balestrini’ – ‘Read Nanni Balestrini’. It brings you up short: an imprecation to read an avant-garde novelist is not something you often see written in spray-paint. “This is the snow channel / and it’s snowing” “Turtle into it / with your little force.” Every kind of virtue is found in a crowd: humans in a crowd create their own paths as if they are water that creates its own stream of water; to make those deep dog woof cheers as they walk in the path the crowd has made is like how water makes a stream. The train is waiting for me at the platform on the 28th floor.
[Note: Sources: Edmundo Paz Soldán, “Anaheim, California”, at Quarterly Conversation 27; Stéphane Mallarmé, “L’après-midi d’vn favne”, “without pity for the sobbing from which I was still drunk’” (tr. Peter Manson), in Stéphane Mallarmé, The Poems in Verse; Harryette Mullen, “from S*PERM**K*T”, in I’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing By Women (eds. Caroline Bergvall, Laynie Browne, Teresa Carmody, Vanessa Place); Patrick Pritchett, “Adorno, Shoah, and The New Yorker”, at Writing the Messianic, 15 Mar 012; Traci Lynn Matlock, “Your Hands Where There Should Be Wings”, at The Noumenon Revelation, 15 Mar 012; cris cheek, and William R. Howe, (and others?), as quoted in Howe’s “Punk as Poetry: cris cheek and his offset press collaborations”, at BEPC; JBR, but see cris cheek, as quoted in Crg Hill, “soliciting e-contribution : remediating the social (please circulate further)”, at Crg Hill’s poetry scorecard, 15 Mar 012; “THE FLATBUSH ZOMBIES SNORT COKE OFF A STRIPPER’S ASS”, at Vice, 15 Mar 012; Steph, “Secret City: The Illegal Architecture of Tawian [sic]”, at Web Urbanist, 6 Mar 012; Pierce Penniless, as quoted in Pierre Joris, “On Nanni Balestrini”, at Nomadics, 15 Mar 012; Peter Gizzi, as quoted in Ben Lerner, “Poetry at the Threshold: Peter Gizzi on lyric selfhood and the perils of singing”, at Poetry Foundation, 15 Mar 012; Anne Boyer, almost as quoted (or paraphrased) in John Armstrong, “Anne Boyer’s Common Heart”, at Bebrowed’s Blog, 15 Mar 012; JBR, line dreamt approx. 6 am 16 Mar 012 (I think it was the 28th floor of the Empire State Bldg …)]